Advice is Something I Can Live Without
by ropesburg
Summary: Things aren't going Kakashi's way. As a matter of fact, they're going in the complete opposite direction. Kakashi-centric. Young/ANBU AU. KakaNaru.
1. Chapter 1

**_Kakashi never met Naruto until, like, recently and no one is dead except for a couple of people AU_**

Young ANBU Kakashi tries to get his life together.

Kakashi is... 26-ish. Naruto twenty-something.

A/N: I wasn't gonna start anything long but this was so fun to write. This is 100% self-indulgent schmuck.

* * *

Naruto.

 _Naruto._

Saying it made his heart beat faster, as if it was stumbling down a cobble street while dead-ass drunk.

Konoha's youngest Hokage was sitting by his desk, his face resting on his hands, peering out the window.

Kakashi admirably held on to his book, the autumn orange Icha Icha that had gone unread for the last twenty minutes. Naruto sighed, making funny grimaces while thinking intently. "Maybe if I go there first..." There was a minuscule movement in his shape, steady as a metronome, from his quickly tapping foot. He rubbed his face, trying to dispel the tiredness.

Kakashi sighed.

Naruto turned around in his swivel-chair, angling his body towards him. "What do you think, Hatake-san?"

He put a finger between the pages, closing the book, "I think you should send someone to check out the situation first."

A tiny wrinkle appeared on Naruto's face. "I'm not sending you, if that's what you thought."

"I hadn't even thought of it," Kakashi blinked innocently. "I'm just saying it would be-"

Naruto leaned back, confident, "You can go if I go with you."

"..."

"To make sure you don't do anything stupid like last time."

Kakashi sat back on the sofa, crossing his legs. The last mission he'd been on had been a rush-job, a hastily thought out plan that had many things that could go wrong, and few that did go right. Kakashi's job was a bit like domino, you had to make sure all the pieces went where they should by setting up the web beforehand and then waiting for a moment to administer the push. Most of what he did was waiting. Waiting in alleys and waiting outside of bars, waiting on rooftops and inside dirty, burly rooms. He spent a lot of time alone, despite that he had his team they often split up, trying to disappear completely in a crowd, like white noise in someone else's life.

It was never surprising when it did go wrong. He saw people take risks, with their own lives or others', idly forcing him to abandon all plans and make up a new on the fly. It could go days between meals, a week without sun. He went on, unaffected, dodging stray kunais and not-so stray kunais. No matter what life threw at him, he ducked.

At least, that had been the case until a couple of months ago. Now, it didn't work as well. There was gravel in the machinery of life.

 _God was in a good mood when he made you_ , Kakashi thought.

His sensei's son, Naruto, had become Hokage in June. Kakashi hadn't met him much before that. A few polite greetings here and there, nodding in the hallways. He barely saw his own sensei, and seeing his son was definitely a rare thing. He'd had no objections when Minato-sensei's replacement was announced. Naruto was thrifty. They'd offered Kakashi the position but he'd turned it down. He regarded the position as Hokage an unfortunate mix of responsibility and detachment. You lost your perspective when stuck behind a desk. Distance was lethal, and entropy expected. The moment of Naruto's inauguration Minato had seemed more relieved than sad. As if the white coat was eating on him, enclosing him. Some people fared better than others. Sarutobi had seemed to thrive with the challenges, as did Naruto. Whatever his strategy, it worked. He was joyfully ignorant of the nervousness he caused his bodyguards because of the constant, unplanned detours over the rooftops. His sloppy handwriting (that looked more like erratic lightning strikes than letters) caused the administration's office to pull their hair out. Yet no one said anything. Forgiveness was a blessing, and some people was allowed it in spades.

"I won't do anything stupid," Kakashi said. _Blatant lie._

"Promise."

"..." Kakashi blinked. "Of course."

* * *

It was windy outside, a haughty spring breeze that made the flags outside the shops whip about in anguish. He shook his head to get rid of the hair that inevitably got stuck in his eyes. Staying clear of the busiest streets, he wound up buying food at a small locale, more like a distraught hole in the wall than an actual restaurant. Besides him the only other living thing was a potted plant, angrily climbing over the edge of its blue pot in a slow, excruciating prison break.

Hound scoffed at him when he got back, straightening up from a knife-sharpening slouch. "You look pleased."

Kakashi nodded. "No babysitter."

The other man flashed a smile, "Did you lie?"

Shrugging, "I wouldn't call it that."

Hound snorted. "I sure as hell won't complain." He took up the whetstone, carefully inching it over the edge.

Kakashi sat down on the other bench opposite him, leaning his head back against the metal lockers. People passed in the corridor, their voices muted by the thick walls. The clatter of steps and the soft, rhythmical whirring from the whetstone made him yawn. Crossing his arms, he sunk back with his full weight against the locker. Relaxation spread in his body. His arms felt heavy.

Hound plopped the tools down on the bench beside him. "It sounds like they're making a move tomorrow. I put in a request for our unit, but you know how it is."

Kakashi nodded, eyes still closed, heaving out a breath.

"Go to bed, you ass. You're making me sleepy too."

* * *

They got the order to move out just before dawn. Having been abruptly awoken, Kakashi rolled out of bed struggling for any concept of up and down, respectively. Hound tossed a shirt in his face. _"Today."_

He pried his eyes open, blinking at the cloud gray insides of the barracks. When he'd managed to get one of his arms in the t-shirt, Hound walked out, barking the order over his shoulder. "We leave in five."

By some cosmic lapse, he did make it in time. The chilly morning brought in mist, making the village appear clad in cotton candy, white castles of condensation built around the modest houses. Tekuno punched him in the arm, "Mornin'. You made it."

Kakashi grunted in reply.

"Alright, everyone's here, we're going."

They shuffled out of the town, a peaceful oasis in an otherwise thorny world.

* * *

Naruto was not having it. "I thought you said you wouldn't do anything stupid."

He was younger than Kakashi, borderline _much_ younger, and he bossed him around like he had a right to. He was too young to have a clear concept of what ANBU service meant, too young for having given up his dreams even once. The world curled around his fingers, careful where it tread. Kakashi hadn't been so lucky. As far as he was concerned, the world had tap-danced on his ambitions ever since he was old enough to spell out the family name.

 _Hatake._

 _Heretic._

Sitting back, having reconciled with the unbridled stubbornness, Naruto frowned. "I'm demoting you."

Kakashi pressed his teeth together, frozen in his chair.

"You're not doing anything above C-rank missions."

Kakashi waited for a moment, giving him plenty of time to crack a smile, to go _"Ha! You should have seen your face!"._

Naruto looked back at him, frustrated but quiet.

"For how long?"

He shrugged. "Until they clear you."

Kakashi frowned.

Naruto scowled back, his face yet again supported by his right hand, elbow on the desk. "Don't look at me like that."


	2. Chapter 2

He stepped over the threshold without any mishap, skillfully avoiding the inner soles of his shoes that were spread around the apartment. Bisuke came running in a flurry of paws and barks, Pakkun strutting after with a dignified pace.

"I tried to stop him," the older dog muttered, regarding Bisuke's insistent licking with a snarl.

Kakashi picked up the remnants of his footwear, inching the soles back where they belonged. "You're not supposed to chew on my things, you know."

Bisuke cocked his head to the side, along with an ambiguous waggle of his tail.

"Let's go outside for a bit."

Every ninken was different. Pakkun was as clever as he was small, grasping complex ideas on the first go. Kakashi had learned how to train his dogs from his father. More often than not they'd been away from the village, they were gone for days at a time on hikes and tours. When he was seven he'd seen a bit of every country. For his birthday they'd gone to the water festival in the land of snow, participating in the joyous three days of celebration. They'd seen the sun rise over the endless land of Fields, their tent a single dark dot on an otherwise spotless turquoise horizon. His father spoke more when it was just the two of them. He smiled more. Less tired. Their longest hike had gone to Land of Fire's highest mountain. Kakashi was eight by then, and acted it.

" _Da-ad,"_ he whined, "everyone stays at home for the holidays..."

Sakumo regarded him with a smile, shrugging off his protests with an air of finality. "I know, but now you'll have something to talk about when you get back."

The little shinobi sighed, "It's a _mountain._ "

Continuing on with the trek, Sakumo waited for him to catch up. "Maa, that's true. But it's quite dangerous. Not everyone can do it."

Having perked up at the idea of a challenge, Kakashi ran to his side. "Is it very dangerous?"

"Oh, yes. So you need to be careful."

It took two days to get to the foot of the mountain, a small encampment with a single house and a handful of tents. They spent the evening sharing stories with the other travelers, Kakashi perching atop a chair in his father's shadow. They learned what to look out for, which roads to choose, every singularity and shift in mood of the nature. Despite that it consisted of rocks and soil and nothing else, they spoke of it as if it had a mind of its own. The weather was flaky. It went from noble blue skies to thick, growling snowy clouds in a short amount of time. He was almost too excited to fall asleep, spending the night listening to each murmuring gust of wind that rattled the tent's roof.

When his father woke him the next morning he was in disbelief of the conditions. The tentative clouds from the evening before had dispersed, leaving nothing but high air, and space. The heavens were limitless. They ate a small breakfast, having packed down most of the snacks in their bags to eat throughout the climb. It was a frustrating climb, the gravel constantly rolling under their feet, threatening to make them fall. It was windy too, gusts kept pulling on Kakashi's clothes, tugging on his very shape.

Sinking back behind a bigger rock he asked for a pause, trying to escape the wind. "How much is left?"

Sakumo leaned out from behind the rock at his question, regarding the path before them. "We're halfway there."

Kakashi groaned.

Each step was a battle. Every piece of mountain he conquered was a victory over fatigue and his own mind. There came a part with lots of bigger, steeper rocks, a little trail nestling between them. People had walked there for ages, for years. He stumbled on, grabbing a ledge for support.

"We're almost there," Sakumo encouraged him.

When they reached the cabin by the peak, Kakashi sank down onto the closest stone. "I'm never going climbing again."

His father sank down beside him, his long hair ruffled from the wind. His cheeks were ruddy. "Take a look at the view," he said, nodding towards it.

Kakashi got up, his legs shaking, his clothes had gotten cold during his short break. The breeze trampled up from the canyons, ruffling him awake. Countless mountains eloped from this one peak, dark shapes that seemed so big when you stood beside them but now suddenly were small. It was bright, welcoming, allowing. No horizon, just a kind blend of the mountains and the sky.

"Next year I thought we could go to Iwagakure."

Kakashi smiled, "This was a piece of cake."

His dad chuckled, "I'm glad to hear it."

They never went.

Instead, Kakashi found him on the living room floor, beside the couch, halfway to the kitchen. His father died. Obito died. _Minato_ almost died.

It seemed he was being punished.

On joyous occasions, like promotions and exams, people said _"Congratulations. You deserve it."_ but if you had to make yourself deserving of good things, didn't it make the opposite true? That you only got what was coming to you? That he'd brought this upon himself? He strained to remember a point in his life when he'd been guilty of such sins.

It was pointless. All of it.

Pakkun brought him back to reality by scratching on his pants' leg. "Oi, airhead. Look at what your pup's doing. "

By the street corner Bisuke had found the fast-food stand, crouching, his tail pointing straight out like an odd weather vane. Kakashi simply lifted the dog up, ignoring the giggles from a nearby flock of kids.

It was night time when he finally made it back to his apartment alone. The ninken had dispersed. The most exhausting part was schooling the dogs. Bisuke had a great affinity for tracking and capturing, but half of Kakashi's commands were disregarded. Pakkun had never been this much trouble...

Kakashi got into bed, shivering under the cool covers. It was quiet in the house, his neighbors having gone to bed hours before him. There was a glitch between him and the others, something standing in the way of a normal life. If he wanted it, it was his for the taking. He didn't. It straight-out bored him, like going through a maze that you'd gone through a dozen of times before.

Sighing deeply and pulling the cover higher up, he blinked out across the room. He split his nights at home between his apartment and the barracks, one being too empty and the other too crowded. Neither was comfortable. Neither allowed him to sleep.

He greeted his clients with a curt nod. The gig as a bodyguard had never amused him, especially not one like this, a mission that was made to be foolproof. He probably could have sent a bag of flour and it'd have the same result.

They walked in silence, him and the elderly couple. They'd paid for security, and there he was. Their very own personal scarecrow in a loose-fitting Konoha uniform.

The woman shifted her backpack on her shoulder to ease the burden, still regarding him with a suspicious frown. "Aren't you a little young to have gray hair?"

Kakashi smiled, turning away. "So I've been told."


	3. Chapter 3

I, uh... this kind of got out of hand. There's gonna be a couple of more parts but they will have to wait until next weekend, I have three exams this coming week.

On a side note, I know Kakashi's age doesn't comply with the canon age, I've just chosen to ignore it. Also, this _might_ be a bit more Kakashi-centric than I thought. It will still be KakaNaru, just not as much.

* * *

They carried on walking for a day and a half, Kakashi quietly assessing their surroundings. There were rivers, stagnant hills, forests devoid of life. The couple discussed future plans, plants that were to be added to their garden. Having paused before a small bridge, they had a petite lunch. Kakashi ate his spring rolls in silence. He swatted a mosquito that preyed on his cheek through the thin fabric.

As if awoken by the clap, the woman looked up. "I met a man like you once. He was from Konoha too."

Kakashi looked up from his hand with the blood-stain on it, his expression vacant.

 _A man that swatted insects? A bodyguard?_

"He had hair just like yours."

His stomach dropped at her remark. Out there in the world, there were endless memories of Hatake the older. It was as if his death had only been a mere inconvenience, not enough to actually put an end to things. Memories of Sakumo moved around, crossing the earth. It would have been simpler if any recollection of him had died when he did.

"Probably a coincidence," Kakashi remarked.

"He spent a lot of time in the desolate villages, rounding up people. He's the reason we had a coup. The country's still in parts, all squabbling with each other."

The ANBU was silent. Orders were orders, soldiers were soldiers. Stories like these were not uncommon. A state needed a shift in power, a more agreeable spokesperson, one less forgetful of his roots. People were coralled into packs, made to turn on each other. For the greater good. His father had done his share of missions, certainly. He'd caused confusion and betrayal.

Sakumo's shadow was ever-present. It was the worst kind of rememberance, either they looked away from Kakashi like his gutted father was contagious, or they talked about the illustrious Hatake -san with awe, a poorly hidden contempt for his abilities and strengths. What he'd heard, either to his face or behind his back, told him little. Avoiding to ask, because he felt filthy when he did, as if remembering his dad like something else than the rogue, backstabbing, country-betraying scum he apparently had been, if he thought about the good things, it would be smearing the survivor's memories. His squad lived when Sakumo died.

People tried to tell him the reduced story, the one with Sakumo having to make an awful choice and somehow picking the worse of the two, but it didn't tell him much. Kakashi was torn between wanting to think of his father as a good man, and a quiet resignation at all the evidence of the opposite. His father wasn't a good man. He'd come to terms with his suicide. There was only so much a person could put up with, and there had to be a line somewhere. Having the whole community turn on you, pulling out the rug from under his feet. During those terms, it was almost understandable. Almost. He still hadn't forgiven Sakumo for leaving. For _choosing_ to leave his son. Shouldn't a parent protect their children? Wasn't that what they did? And if he didn't want a son, why did he raise one?

Kakashi had never met his mother. There had been pictures of her in the hallway, on the nightstand in his father's bedroom. Long brown hair, pointy shoulders, a freckled nose. On all the photographs she looked straight into the camera. Coming from a higher standing than his father, she wore nice clothes, kimonos with embellished details. Her drawers were filled with soft fabrics, carefully folded. It had ached to see them being sold to rough hands that would shrug them off, leaving them in a pile on a dirty floor. He'd seen countless artifacts changing hands, family keepsakes that had been stored atop the big wood cabinet that he'd barely been able to see over.

After his father's death he'd gone into foster care for a brief moment, he had to be contained, like a spill of something toxic. Several escapes later, over hazardous rooftops and past outstretched arms, he was finally left alone. He already had a home, had had a family. You couldn't exchange one for the sake of the other. He was eleven when he got his apartment, fourteen when he enlisted. Too young, but the system wanted him. It took him.

As they approached the village the elderly lady hurried along, her crooked legs wanton of respite. Kakashi stayed behind with her husband, a potato-nosed man with watery eyes and an arched back that made him look as if he'd topple over.

"Don't listen to her," he squeaked. "She is still upset over the riots." The crumpled man blinked, tapping the road with his cane, "We lost our oldest son in the... in the fighting."

"I'm sorry."

Carefully stepping over a scraggly root, he forgave him. "It was a long time ago."

They went on, the birds chirping in the trees above them.

* * *

The stone stood in a little meadow, away from the rest. Kakashi felt an old annoyance flow past him, an anger that had nowhere to go. His mother's stone was among the other memorials, but Sakumo's was at the edge of the field, a final constant sneer.

Having put the flowers on the grave, he stood in front of it, briefly. His father hadn't grown old. The letters were caving in from the thin, green vegetation that had begun to take over. They needed nothing else than air and sun to thrive.

"You may have done a bad job raising me."

Back at the main building he made his way to the archive, an unpleasant brick-wall cellar. He signed his name in the roster, jotting down "case file #19A" as his reason to visit, having pulled it straight out of thin air. The woman behind the desk popped a round pink bubble with her lips and then read him his rights. "You may not bring anything hazardous or flammable to the main archives. You may not bring anything with you out. If you need to-"

He held a hand up. "I know, I know, don't set the files on fire."

The receptionist nodded, chewing rapidly on her gum, twirling a strand of commercial red hair between her fingers, "Good."

It rapidly got cooler as he took the elevator down. The metal box rattled and groaned as it stopped on the other floor. With a lazy ping the long industrial lights came on, displaying one of many gray, anonymous shelves. The elevator jangled back upstairs. Only the buzz from the lamps was heard. That, and his quick steps over the floor. Hurrying over to the first cabinet, labeled _Land of Snow._ He moved on.

 _Yukigakure. Kazahana Dotou. Land of spring._

He changed row, going to the other side of the room, quickly sweeping past the tiny labels. He glanced at the elevator door, then went to the far edge of the room.

 _Aburami – Adachi._

He thought for a second, nodding, then continuing to look, now faster, skipping large chunks of cabinets and labels. Two rows down he crouched, looking at the names from the bottom up.

 _Hattori - Hatake._

He pulled out the drawer, flipping through the folders, _Hattori Hayashi, Hatake Yui, Hatake Sakumo._ Ripping out the last one, he put it on the cabinet, hastily flicking through it.

 _Hatake Sakumo._ Date of birth and of death. His father's father, his father's mother. He'd enlisted by the age of eighteen, done 38 S-ranks. Nothing stood out. He'd shown great talent early on, steadily going on more difficult missions. Kakashi turned the pages, skimming through the various reports and documents. Successful missions, one after the other, his first S-rank, the records grew sparse.

There was a copy of an official recommendation for leave, dated September 15th.

The next post was dated the third of November.

" _Colleagues (UK, IG, ST, et al.) report HS seeming 'tired', 'thoughtful'. IG demand a request to be put in to remove HS from command, on the grounds that '[HS] is not up to it.' Clearance for duty:_ _pending._ _"_

Next page.

 _January 22_ _nd_ _. "HS reports feeling better, and wishes to get back to work."_

There was an ominous rattle coming from above.

Kakashi hurried up, going to the last page.

 _June 6_ _th_ _. "Following a long-term depressive state, HS was found deceased at home. Autopsy report confirm death by own hand (sep.). Remaining relatives: HK (son), age 9."_

Before that was a list of journal entries made by doctors.

It hissed as the elevator stopped.

Going backwards from the first page, the last official entry was dated February 23rd.

" _Following the refusal of orders during operation-"_

The name was blacked out.

" _HS is hereby relieved of all command; his position at-"_

Blacked out.

" _along with any additional contact with the bureau will, as of today, immediately cease."_

There were steps coming down the isle.

He crammed the folder back into the drawer and followed the suspicious administrator back up.


	4. Chapter 4

Kakashi had been invited for a dinner. All four of them sat down by the table. They weren't his family, but they didn't pretend to be. They let him in without any obligations, because they wanted to, because it had been a long time since Minato had seen his student. Kakashi had been flooded in work, barely finding time to eat or sleep or do his taxes. Sensei's home was as inviting as ever but he'd learned to live without it.

Obito and Rin's deaths had been accidental. Not that it mattered. Kakashi had caused Rin's death. As he struck her point blank in her loving heart, it was unimportant how he felt.

The laws of physics spoke into his silence. Every object in a state of motion remains in that state unless an external force is applied to it. He was unobstructed until he was not. Not by a slope or by a tree, but by a friend. Stopped by someone who picked flowers and argued with her mom. A girl that gave him more chances than he deserved or even wanted. She died because he was scared. She died because he knew how to fight.

The discussion continued around the table, solipsistic yammering into the air. Minato made a joke and Kushina groaned, "That was _not_ funny."

Smiling, Minato went on, "It was! It was so bad it went all the way round and became funny."

Naruto chimed in, his mouth full of rice, "Dad, that's not how it works-"

* * *

His clothes were stained, torn. The black leather belt kept his soaked pants up by pure stubbornness, rather out of some personal agenda. Kakashi pushed another sticky branch out of his way, passing and letting it rattle back against the dense vegetation. Wiping his brow, glancing at his wet shoes, he quickened his pace. He'd been walking for days, hours and minutes that started to blur. The Land of Hills was shaped like a cauldron, deep sweltering valleys to the West, crying mountains to the East, gray peaks sticking out to indifferently chew on the horizon. Focusing on his steps, he made his way up a tiny hillside and dropped his backpack beside a tree. It yanked on his shoulders and tore at his arms.

He grunted but straightened up, cracking his neck. Dipping his index finger in his mouth, he used the saliva to wipe off the face of the bulky watch.

He slowly turned his head from side to side, a slight crease forming on his forehead. There was the everlasting hum of the leaves, a quiet simmer from a creek further down, whistling from the spaces and the wind.

Groaning as he slung his backpack upright and onto his back, he then took a last look around. His face was still, expressionless, in the haphazard shadows from the crown of trees.

Hours later he made camp in a tiny clearing, beside a translucent lake. Mosquitoes clouded the air like droplets of black snow. He closed the tent with a confident snatch of his wrist, sealing himself off from the world and its bloodsuckers. Through the tent's roof he could still see the twitches of insects, rambling across the sky.

Turning around so that he was on his side, he pressed a hand in under his sleeping bag, feeling the stone there, round, sorry, immovable. His face contorted, his jaw going tense, tears pressing out of his tight eyes. He gasped, his hands rolling into fists, berating the fabric between his bone-taut fingers. Blinking and grimacing, he curled up in his sleeping bag.

Sakumo had cooed him into sleeping, those difficult days. His father had sat by him, gently touching the fabric beside Kakashi's upset leg.

"It gets better," he'd say, leaning his head to the right, as if angling his body for a hug, for a chance to pick up, and help, and shield. Sakumo was gone now, having wandered out. Kakashi sniffled into his low pillow. The orange tent wall made the evening light look dozed off.

Sakumo had given him the tent for his birthday, saying, "I played with my sister in this. We used to pretend we were trapped out into the wilderness," and every breath twinged in Kakashi's chest, as if his lungs were a travesty simply rehearsing for death. Inside him a gaping hole, a limber void of nothing. There was an eternity of birthdays that he would celebrate alone and graves that were his to sustain despite that he was eleven and never having held a shovel in all of his life.

Two days later he stumbled in through Minato's office, stopping right after the door, overwhelmed.

"The mission," he started.

Minato blinked, pen frozen in his hand, "What about it?"

"It went okay," but that wasn't why he'd come there, after a week in the slumping forests, "Please help me," he said.

Hatake Kakashi, age eleven and a half, was not articulate.

* * *

It was just who he was; a happy man, enchanting, some might say. When Kakashi heard his laugh bellow out into the corridor, all the hair on his arms stood on end. It was painstakingly difficult whenever they were in class and not outside, because the small groups would lead to there being few students for Minato to shift his gaze between. Kakashi felt as if he was being singled out, held above a great height, waiting to crash down.

He'd never been fond of eye contact, looking intently at a teacher or a friend, but in a classroom he had to. Meeting eyes with Minato's clear demanding gaze meant that he had to have his thoughts in order, and they never were. His thoughts were like a dump site for all kinds of things, none of them exactly relevant. Kakashi couldn't look at him, but he couldn't look away. It was harmless, and still not. It affected his life but he refused to let it.

One time when he came scrambling into the classroom, the others had been seated. Minato as well, his back a tableau of white. There was a sudden urge, mindless, always, to put his hand on his back.

* * *

If he'd put his hand on Minato's back, his life would have been something different. Kakashi would have been in Konoha, or on the forest floor, gasping, or sleeping soundly in his own bed between the harsh sheets.

If he'd put his hand on Minato's back, it would have happened. Rejection, or a refusal honest enough to make him puke, or Minato would have turned him down, fuming, or Kakashi would have woken up with tousled hair and lazy regrets, or none of that would have happened. But if he'd done it, different paths would have been tread upon.

He wouldn't be where he was, barricaded in a storage among slumping, fat bags of rice and dusty sake bottles. It rattled on the other side of the door as the troops scrambled up the stairs, spreading out and warming him up to the idea of being captured.

Prisoners of war rarely fared well. New agents such as himself could be traded, during normal circumstances. Konoha was in a state, a fragile steaming heap of headless shit. They couldn't keep the leadership intact, much less arrange for a hostage release.

It grew quieter in the hotel. Everyone was catching their breath, waiting for the military to do their job and apprehend whatever cretin that had tried to infiltrate their town. Kakashi ransacked a couple of the boxes until he found a piece of cloth around a bread. He shook it off, then neatly bandaged his shin. The bleeding had almost stopped, merely a slow oozing persisted.

At least twenty soldiers had gathered, their chakra signatures like reflective eyes in the night. There was no going down that way. He'd come up via the pristine foyer, taking the steps in one go, his clammy hand almost slipping off the banister.

On deals like this, they weren't taking any chances. He was famous. His dad had raised hell over half the world, it seemed, and now Kakashi showed an aptitude for killing. He was talented. Gifted. Foolhardy ideas for salvation. Admirable qualities.

How come they caused him nothing but grief? Not wanting it for himself, unsure of how to feel when he fought until his weapons broke, when his enemies yielded. Times when he was left alone with a victory and a disgrace.

He was seventeen and had a hole in his leg. Behind the flimsy barrier of expensive wood, the group of soldiers had fallen quiet.

Kakashi was tired. When they came to get him, he wouldn't fight. Sick of being brave. Sick of it.

Putting up with it all had given him nothing. He was finished. Done, and happy to let go.

After finding his body floating face-down in a river, Minato would say that Kakashi had fought bravely despite being gravely wounded and outnumbered. Who sent two full divisions to deal with a single kid? Didn't they have the decency to let him die in peace?

It wouldn't be long now. Noises from the street squelched in from the open window, the deliberately blue sky sticking out like a sore thumb in the middle of the drab pantry wall.

He got up, limping profusely, putting his knife in the satchel on his back. The window reached his waist. Many floors up. On the street, the people looked like hesitant ants, swerving around carriages and tiny shops with colorful sunscreens.

The footsteps rushing down the corridor sounded like thunder claps.

The wall got torn in two by an approaching army, their swords like flowers in full bloom.

* * *

Marguerite brought up yet another pack of sugar from behind the counter, putting it on the horizontal glass.

"Would you like something more?"

Her customer scrutinized the paper in her hands, her eyes squinting behind her glasses. "I don't think so..." She reached into her bag for the money, the lumpy hand shaking.

Marguerite helped pack the groceries atop the woman's cart, holding up the door for her on the way out. A crowd had gathered on the street, excitedly talking and looking upwards.

"Mom!" Kirei called out, his cheeks flushed with color. "The guards have caught an intruder, they're holding him captive in the hotel."

Covering her eyes with her hand, she glanced upwards at the hotel. There was a shattering sound, a crying out from glass. A window had been broken and innumerable shards of it fell down, causing panic in the crowd below it, a rushing and escape.

Straining her eyes to discern whatever happened above, she blinked against the harsh sunlight. There was an encompassing gasp from the crowd as they saw a shape jumping away from the building, its arms and legs outreached like those of a cat in mid-air, a desperate attempt to cling to molecules.

It was a _boy,_ she saw now, not unlike Kirei, shaped like a beanstalk, arms and legs too long and not yet grown into. As he hurled through the air, closer to the ground for each passing glimpse, she saw him tense his body, angling it to take yet another beating.

 _Thud!_

But he didn't let himself pause, he swung himself upright and ran across the flat expanse of roof. Whatever men that followed him cried out like antagonized guard dogs, frothing at their mouths. The boy didn't look back. He'd flung himself off the one-story building, his breath audible in the outskirt of the gathered crowd. They'd fallen silent at the sight of such one sided violence, of a single miscreant against a dozen soldiers.

She caught a glimpse of his bright hair when he rushed past the vegetable stand at the edge of the market place. So young, but already running for his life.


	5. Chapter 5

It was windy enough to make the windows clatter, shaking in their boots. Kakashi hid behind a thick column.

"I'm telling you, she's gonna do it. Now she wants to go to The Land of Hills."

Another man laughed.

"I'm serious! I think she'll propose-... _Stop laughing!_ "

"I can't believe you're afraid of going on a trip with your _girlfriend_ because you think she'll _propose._ " The wheezing laughter continued.

"But what will I do if she does?"

The sound of a thump. "You say yes, idiot."

Two men; one smoking, the other one regarding the river on the other side of the street.

"It's not that easy-"

"Say _yes._ "

"But-"

"Do you want this cigarette in your eye?"

After sparing them a last glance, Kakashi hurried along the building. Two men outside, even more when he got in. To be spying on his own village was detestable in many regards, an eerie knocking on his shoulder, signaling _mistake_. The first guard was slung under his spell easily enough, new at the job, nineteen at most. Kakashi leaned his body against the wall just behind the entrance. After using the Sharingan there was a period where it was unusable. He blinked hard, once. Colors bloomed on the inside of his eyelids. The other guard was more seasoned. The quiet scuffle had set off some kind of warning bell. Kakashi got up, pulling down the fabric in front of his left eye.

It took some tinkering to unlock the door. Heavy spells had been placed upon it, like slight shimmering around the doorknob. His jutsu broke in by brute force, leaving the cabinets behind undamaged. He took out his small flashlight, its skittish light jumping from drawer to drawer. The newest contained the most recent activities. Kakashi followed the paper trail backwards in time. Five years. Ten years. Twenty.

Thick dust clad the files, precariously stacked on the metal cabinets. His steps cut out shapes on the dirty floor, soft under his feet. He picked down the file at the very top of a pile. Weather report. He put it back, then started flicking through the barely visible names of the other ones. Agriculture analysis of Konoha's surrounding areas. Maps over the biggest rivers.

Yanking the mask down, he blew away most of the dust. Quickly scanning folder after folder, looking for anything resembling the family name. He found it at the far back. A great, caved-in family registry of Konoha's population. Finding the right years went fast, but the names were taken down in small, brittle letters, following a long line of facts for each person.

 _Yui, Yui, Yui._

Three pages later, in the middle. _Hatake Yui._ She'd taken his father's name upon moving here.

 _Date of birth: March 28_ _th_ _._ _Place of birth:_ _Yokkaichi._ Up north. He frowned.

* * *

He froze, could only watch as Naruto put his hands on his, regarding him with big eyes.

"Your hands are cold!"

Kakashi cleared his throat, racking his brain for a response. "...yeah?"

His heart was racing like it was raving mad. Naruto looked down at the document in front of him, as if seeing it anew. Kakashi put his hand to his cheek but then took it down again.

Living was the hardest part. Working allowed his mind to wander, to disconnect. Out in the alleys or on missions his head was gloriously empty, a clean drawer. It was only temporarily riddled with commands, with versions of the truth. He did the job. The job mattered.

Palpable.

Drawing hair-thin wires across a room from a chunk of explosives to the window, or spending three days watching a nondescript glass door, those things were just that. Things. But what he felt when Naruto came in through the door, carrying a bunch of folders and brimming with ideas that were both good and bad and tedious, _smiling,_ was times, it felt like there were no things left. The world was empty, having gone away to die someplace else, to avoid bothering him. Kakashi felt struck. He'd been hit.

They stopped to talk by a doorway, Naruto on one side and Kakashi on the other, a few inches apart. The hokage acted like it was natural, like the tones and the beats didn't convulse out of sheer, incessant longing. Kakashi was gripped with a headless lust, a disgusting ache that left his judgment in fucked-over pieces. He would go far, too far, for any possibility of smelling his skin, for the slightest of chances to undress the blond someplace private, to drag his teeth over the tendons of his neck. A few minutes each day, Kakashi desired him. His blood sang. When the illusions -dreams- had run their course -wet-, he came to his senses. Swimming in a cauldron of wrong turns, regretting every one that had made him end up there, Kakashi regarded the Hokage with a soft, resigned warmth.

Naruto mattered. His thoughts crawled across the days, ending up in Kakashi's mouth, rolling over his tongue as if it'd been his own. Kakashi was too old; years too late to get hung up on blue eyes or angular hands, hot to the touch. He had to _stop_.

He couldn't.

* * *

Having drawn every zipper on his backpack shut, Kakashi looked around.

"How'd the meeting go?" Hound asked. "Did they say anything about your suspension?"

He shook his head and got up.

Hound regarded the bag. "As your superior officer, I feel I have to ask."

Hatake ran a hand through his hair, glancing longingly at the exit. "I'm... going fishing."

"And when will you be back?"

Kakashi shifted the weight from his left foot to the right. "A couple of days. Before the weekend."

"Four days, at most?"

"Yeah."

The charade was necessary.

Hound leered. "Well, have fun. Don't forget your fishing rod..."

* * *

The village was empty. Heavy green branches hung over the tired streets. The houses, tiny dust-colored boxes, stood abandoned. Thick boards covered the windows, some doors were barred. Kakashi stopped to look at the map again, squinting at the streets that eloped from the main road. A wrung-out restaurant sat on the corner, its sturdy wood chairs having been flipped over. Crushed plates shone weakly from below, a mishmash of old table cloths and discarded napkins scattered across the floor like the aftermath of a hurricane. A malnourished fox jumped out from behind a waste basket, rapidly scurrying into the shadows of the alley. The air was taut with desertion, smelling of forest and leaves. He went right, passing by cracked windows and ducking under low-hanging clothes lines. Behind the houses there was a steeply curved bridge, bucking over a slowly flowing river. The banisters were made out of stone, cold to the touch. Vegetation had begun to overtake it, crawling across from both sides. In the distance several birds were singing their hearts out, trying to enchant the entire world. Behind another bend of the road, there was an old, dreary complex, its brown buildings grappling out across over the clearing, groaning over the gravel-covered yard. Despite its size it had been abandoned too. A weather-beaten wood sign hung from rusty chains, creaking in the slight wind.

Crackling, stepping over branches. There was another person there, having caught him unaware. He put his hands up, away from the painfully sharp combat knife in his thigh holster.

"I've got a bit of a beef with you, Hatake."

His fingers twitched. He refused to turn around. It would give his attacker a perfectly sound reason to slew and maim.

A woman. Older than him.

"Turn around and let me look at you."

He edged around carefully over the bundles of leaves and tired roots.

She had long brown hair, dark eyes that pooled over her white cheeks. Barely discernible freckles like minuscule splatters of paint. Her long sword glinted in her hands, a shivering prayer of steel and thousands of hours of work, drawn into one single blade. She was more muscular than him with round thighs and broad shoulders, sturdily rooted onto the ground. Despite his name and stature, she seemed secure. The sword was steady.

"Get inside."

He did so, achingly conscious about his hands and his options that rose and fell, dependent on what he decided to do. The house was shoddy on the inside, its slanted roof kneeling down to bite his hair. In the corner, an altar. It's little wooden shelf was barely enough to support a picture of a woman. Dust covered every horizontal surface, sticky gray residues. She glanced outside before shutting the door.

"What are you doing here?"

Honesty? Or something else?

"I came here to see if there was anything left."

"Who sent you?"

"I sent myself."

"Oh?" She taunted, her smile a sneer. "Looking for your _mom_?"

"No," he said.

"They left. Not your mommy of course, but the others. I'm the only one here."

"They left you," he surmised.

"Someone had to stay behind. To deal with the likes of you." She lowered the sword, looking him over. "That's what kind of people they are. Always ready to cut their losses and start over somewhere new. I bet they're up in the mountains." She raised the sword again. "Cowards, all of them. _That's_ what your family is like. Whenever a problem arise, they tuck their tails between their legs and cower in a corner."

"Did you know my mother?" They were similar, as if the artist that had drawn her had made another sketch.

The woman smiled. "Did I _know_ her? I grew up with her. I followed her around, wanted nothing more than to be like her."

Kakashi shifted to the left, trying to get past the fire place.

"Slow down, super spy."

They stood opposing each other, two people in a cramped room.

"Yui was my sister."

Sister.

"She was three years older than me. My family had just moved here when I was born, bringing a bunch of unruly kids. I grew up here. The fifth child that no one cared about. She was the oldest daughter. Very pretty. You know how it goes."

He tried to swallow down a lump in his throat. Uncooperative.

"She was engaged to a merchant's son, a good man in every way. He was set to take over his father's business. But _Yui-_ " her voice shivered. The eyes burned, another corrosive smile crept up on her face, "-that mindless, stupid woman-..." She sighed abruptly. "She found someone else to marry. A common soldier, passing through. I hated him."

Glaring at Kakashi, she continued, "He had the most horrid white hair, he looked like an old man. She deserved so much better, she just couldn't get it through her head. My mother was set on her marrying the boy from the village and Yui ran away. Like a common tramp. We heard of you later on."

"I never knew of you," he said.

"Hardly surprising. In this perfect family, nothing ever happens."

Rain tapped on the roof, pallid insistent fingers wanting to come in. As a blanket the sound unfolded in the air.

"Have you found out what you came for?" she asked.

"Yes," Kakashi said.

"I can't let you go," the woman said, once again holding up the sword.

Kakashi stood still, his shoes touching the same floor as his family had played on. The boards they had slept on, where they had planned strategic marches and assaults. His blood had put them there, shaped them, lived around them. A piece that was undoubtedly _him_ had rested here. Fireplace, bed, sliding doors.

"I've read about you, you know."

"..."

"I know how dumb it is to challenge you."

"..."

"I have to."

The brawl was short, a clashing of breaths, of wills. She could have pursued. He stopped running. She was chained. Eternally bound to an empty house. There was only bamboo behind him, a faint rustling of downpour. Green leaves.

* * *

Kakashi sat on the railing. He opened his flak jacket, drew a sigh of relief.

Naruto shaded his eyes with his hand. "There was a break-in at the document processing facility a couple of days ago."

"Huh," Kakashi said, sliding down from the edge, put a hand in his pocket and the other on the rail.

"The thief only looked at a certain section of the gathered info."

"They must have been really curious."

"Whoever it was got past five guards, yet no one has a clue as to what they looked like."

"As I said. Curious."

Naruto went to stand beside him. Below, the village went about its usual business. "Not very clever, though," the Hokage said, focusing on some point below the tree line far away.

"No?" Kakashi said, looking at the man beside him, then looking away.

"They could have just borrowed my key," Naruto said, leaving.


End file.
